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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23985673">Another Way to Get to Know You</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndridGrey/pseuds/IndridGrey'>IndridGrey</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>But Very Little Transphobia Actually Happens, Character Study, Dean Winchester Makes Friends and Has a Good Time, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, F/M, Slice of Life, Trans Female Dean Winchester, fear of transphobia, gender euphoria, gender transition</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:06:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,347</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23985673</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndridGrey/pseuds/IndridGrey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>New city, new apartment, new job, new gender presentation.</p><p>Dee Smith leaves the menswear at home, starts her new job at Sandover Iron &amp; Bridge in a skirt and kitten heels, and finally, fucking <i>finally</i> gets called the right things.  Things are going great for a few weeks and even with the fear of being outed she's the happiest she's ever been.</p><p>And then someone decides to pop their own kernel in an office microwave.</p><p>(This covers the three weeks that the Winchesters are brainwashed into Smith and Wesson up to the end of It's a Terrible Life)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Smith/Sam Wesson, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I figure if angel teleportation makes you not poop for a week, being brainwashed into new memories has aftereffects too.  So Dee is dealing with a killer migraine and the memories settling in.  cw: the first three sentences involve semi-graphic nausea and vomiting</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first thing that swam into Dean's awareness was nausea like she was on a roller coaster on a boat in a storm and her innards were trying to jump ship. Lucky for her, the second thing that came was that the hard thing digging into her cheekbone was a toilet seat. Her aim was good but her head pulsed violently with every involuntary heave and a splitting headache had set up shop by the time she lurched up to the sink. Cold water washing various fluids off her face and mint replacing the acrid taste in her mouth did wonders and still left her feeling like thrice-fucked shit. What the hell had happened?</p>
<p>Mercifully for her head, her bedroom was directly across the hall and the city light pollution coming in through its windows was enough to guide her across without any overhead lights. Her bed was made. According to her phone dock it was just after 3 in the morning. The witching hour. Undershirt and boxer briefs, made bed, no lights on: she must have been getting ready for bed and passed out or something. Although, if she'd collapsed her face should have hurt more, so maybe she'd fallen asleep. On the floor. Positioned to puke.</p>
<p>She shuffled her way over to the still-unopened moving boxes by her closet and started searching them mostly by touch. Maybe she was coming down with something. She felt...she felt like week-old roadkill that'd been microwaved too long. Dizzy, dehydrated, exhausted, achy, shaky, and drenched in a cold sweat. Those could all be chalked up to the hurling and the headache, though. Incredibly hungover, maybe. A blackout would explain why she couldn’t remember what she'd been doing immediately before losing consciousness.</p>
<p>She finally found her sunglasses and carried them with her to the open plan living area of her apartment. Nothing looked out of place in the dim light, just furniture and boxes, boxes and furniture. The light from the fridge stabbed her brain even with the tinted lenses protecting her, and her stomach clenched as she stared blankly at the six pack dark and solitary against the stark white plastic insides. She was a step below the narrator of Fight Club with her lack of condiments, but she had beer. A drunken blackout was looking more and more likely. No food meant she probably went out to eat and had way too many. Her dumb ass should have just ordered pizza.</p>
<p>She confirmed the matching lack of food in the freezer and cabinets before she returned to her room on a quest for soft pajama pants and a hoodie. 24-hour breakfast restaurant staff were hardly going to be scandalized and she was too hungry and in too much pain to really give a fuck if they were. Same went for the valet and front desk people.</p>
<p>~~:::~~</p>
<p>As expected, none of the Waffle House staff batted an eye at her outfit. The cops sitting in the far corner didn’t even look over when the literal door bell rang, which struck her as rather careless. What if she’d been planning to rob the place?</p>
<p>She picked the booth across the restaurant from the cops so she could see them, the kitchen, and the door with ease. A waitress who looked almost suspiciously perky for the hour was at the edge of the table before Dean had even settled into the seat.</p>
<p>“What can I get for you, sir?”</p>
<p>It was way too fucking early for unnecessary gender bullshit. “You’ll make me feel even older than I already do if you keep that up. ‘Sir’ is my dad.”</p>
<p>The waitress smirked and cocked her hip playfully. “Alright. What can I get for you, young man?”</p>
<p>Well, Dean tried. She sighed, ordered, and fought the packaging for the pain meds she’d picked up from a convenience store on the way. The orange juice came a minute after she swallowed the pills dry.</p>
<p>She kept trying to remember what she had been doing yesterday, or the day before, or the week before, but so much was missing. She remembered that she’d just moved in, but she couldn’t remember the dry feel of cardboard against her fingers as she packed or where she’d been living before. She remembered the sun on her neck while her dad was showing her the ropes under a hood, but not the make of the car. She remembered her sister was a terrible cook but not how she knew that. She remembered staying up late working on a major research paper for her consumer behavior class, but her freshman roommate was faceless. Everything felt eerie and...slippery, like nothing was quite settled, like it could all be swept away with a firm hand and a washcloth.</p>
<p>She kept circling back to the hard press of the toilet seat and the six pack. Upset stomach, godawful headache, disorientation, and significantly impaired memory all sounded like things that would be associated with heavy drinking. Prioritizing beer over any actual food and then drinking away from home anyway sounded like A Problem. Was she an alcoholic? Surely she should remember that. Then again, she should really be able to remember where she’d been living two days before.</p>
<p>The ring of the bell over the door was barely audible under the racket the gaggle of young college-aged kids made as they tumbled in. Her head pulsed at the noise as they crammed into a booth two down from her own despite there being a whole other wall of booths and a counter wide open for the taking. By the time the waitress brought her food over, her temples and eyes felt like they were being tattooed with knitting needles. The group burst out in obnoxious, tipsy laughter. Dean stood and walked over.</p>
<p>“Hey.”</p>
<p>The guy with a girl in his lap and hair like a sea urchin regarded her with thinly veiled hostility. “You want something, gramps?”</p>
<p>Her stomach clenched with annoyance—not quite enough to bring the nausea back, but enough that she wasn’t going to be able to enjoy her bacon as much as she would have a minute ago. She really should have just tried to sleep through whatever the hell was going on with her until a grocery store opened up. She wasn’t even that old, for fuck’s sake.</p>
<p>Her smile wasn’t nice. “You’ve got less than a decade to go until you're a 'gramps' too, buddy boy. Unless you’re illegally tipsy, of course, in which case I imagine those officers would be real interested in how your night’s been going, McLovin. I hear they’ve got quotas.”</p>
<p>Sea Urchin scowled and a couple others shifted uncomfortably. Lap Girl snapped out “The fuck do you want?”</p>
<p>“I want you to use your insides voices so my head doesn’t explode and splatter brains all over you. And for you to tip our waitress well for having to put up with you.”</p>
<p>“Whatever.”</p>
<p>A chorus of profanity-heavy grumbling acted as a soundtrack for her getting resettled at her table, but at least they were quiet about it. She scarfed down half her meal before it occurred to her to check her phone. Her family members were listed in her contacts by name but there were few other numbers saved. The camera gallery was mostly pictures of her apartment without the boxes—right, she’d gone for the furnished option so she didn’t have to haul much shit herself or pay people to bang up her furniture—and some snaps of sunsets and the city skyline. The notes included login info for various websites, a grocery list, and “research Sandover in prep for interview.” The calendar had the day before annotated as “move” and the coming Thursday as “interview”</p>
<p>She had an interview in a few days. She didn’t even remember applying. Shit.</p>
<p>She polished off her food, put down a 20 because she wouldn’t be surprised if the punks didn’t tip at all just to spite her, ignored the homophobic slur Sea Urchin spat at her as she passed, and was home by 4:30. She set her alarm to wake her up in three hours and surrendered to exhaustion.</p>
<p>~~:::~~</p>
<p>There was a message on her phone.</p>
<p>The shower must have drowned out the sound of the actual call since the reminder beep had startled her out of staring at herself and cataloging how much she still looked like unshaven, sleep-deprived shit. She had to hunt down the voicemail pin number in the note full of logins, but she got there.</p>
<p>“Hello, this is Kassady with Sandover Iron and Bridge. I’m calling to remind you of your 10 o'clock interview this Thursday. I just sent the position information, the resume you submitted, and directions to the office to the email address you provided. Please bring copies of your resume to the interview. If you have any questions, call the number in the email signature. Thank you.”</p>
<p>Well that should give her a starting place. She set her laptop up to charge while she worked on unpacking her bedroom, but a solid ten minutes passed of her just sitting on the floor contemplating her clothing. Aside from undergarments and sleep wear it was almost all business clothes: slacks, button ups, ties, suspenders, jackets, sweaters. It all seemed so...stiff. And bland, despite the myriad of patterns. Most of it would need to be ironed before she could wear it. More than that, it all just contributed to people calling her the wrong things all the time. Granted, people would still do it even if she dressed more casually, but the fancy menswear sure as shit didn't help. May as well actually be comfortable. In the end she didn’t get anything unpacked before checking on her laptop.</p>
<p>Dean may have still looked like crap, but she actually felt better, far less spacey, far less like Leonard Shelby. The wonders of a nap and a shower. Clicking around on her computer was reassuring as she found notes from a business class she remembered, records of investments she remembered stressing over, pictures from a hike a couple years back and of her blowing out the candles of a birthday cake in her old living room, all of which she remembered. She must have been on the verge of needing hospitalization in order to forget the smug, unrepentant look Ash would give her every time she was slightly traumatized because he didn't put a tie on their doorknob. She'd mostly liked the guy but had been so relieved when he transferred to MIT.</p>
<p>Back on task: right at the top of her inbox was an unread email titled “Interview Information”. Her last job had mostly consisted of putting out fires set by the company’s wildly incompetent higher management, but judging from the job description attached and what she found on the Sandover Iron and Bridge website, getting this job would be a marked improvement from that situation. They even included people like her in their non-discrimination statement.</p>
<p>She froze when she opened the resume she’d submitted. At the very top, in obnoxiously large font, was “D. Smith”. Not Dean Smith, her actual name. Why wouldn’t she have put—</p>
<p>Her desk chair hit the wall when she shot up to her feet, wide fucking awake, adrenaline flooding through her. New city, new apartment, expensive clothes in a cardboard moving box rather than on hangers with garment covers like they should be, ambiguous name stand-in. Had she been—</p>
<p>Fuck, she absolutely could.</p>
<p>But should she?</p>
<p>Well, why the fuck not? She had plenty read emails confirming job application submissions. Even if she got discriminated against in the interview despite their official statement, she could just go back to her default for her next interview if need be. It wasn’t like she was going to be doing anything irreversible within a window of a few days. She’d have to watch her back, and be ready to be laughed out of the building, but—</p>
<p>Dean reined her chair back in and hunkered down to do a shit-ton of research and chart out a plan.</p>
<p>Yeah.  <em>Fuck</em> yeah.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A lot of this, if it goes as planned, is going to be Dee Smith in Sandoverland and then the episode events at the end.  Hopefully we can get through this together!</p>
<p>Feel free to let me know if there are formatting issues or typos that need editing. </p>
<p>I thrive on kudos and comments &lt;3 &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Getting basics for a girl mode trial run</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Will update the summary to clarify that this story covers the three weeks between the angels brainwashing the Winchesters into Smith and Wesson until the end of It's A Terrible Life--ch 1 was Dean sorting through the physical aftermath of the brainwashing.</p><p>cw: brief mention of sexual harassment</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Face, voice, and body language were the most important aspects of conveying gender according to the hours of research Dean had done yesterday.</p><p>Face was on standby until she could buy the ingredients for DIY hair removal, but luckily she'd had a couple scarves packed away and it was cool enough out that it didn't seem odd to bundle up. She had to pull them down to eat her brunch, though, which was why she had waited until she was an hour away from her residence and possible future workplace to find a restaurant to stop at. Some of the night staff at her condo, the people from Waffle House and the people at the diner a couple towns over were the only ones who had seen the lower part of her face since she woke up with the hangover from hell, and she planned to keep it that way.</p><p>She'd done her first vocal warm-ups in the shower that morning and had found the NPR channel so she could repeat what was said during her drive to help narrow down a comfortable range and inflection. Most of the talk was boring as hell, but the same thing could be said of sales and marketing. Confidence was non-negotiable to succeed in her line of work and her last job had been two-thirds over the phone. Getting the hang of sounding comfortable and not just falsetto was going to be particularly important.</p><p>As far as body language, there were plenty tutorial videos online, a decent chunk of which she'd watched the day before. Slightly staring at the other women in the restaurant wasn't ideal, but seeing it in person assured that what she was seeing was natural rather than exaggerated for teaching purposes. She practiced keeping her wrists and fingers bent and aloft during the drive from the restaurant to the shopping district and tried not to feel silly or like a mannequin. If this was how other women went about their day without seeming like total weirdos then by God she would figure it out too.</p><p>~:::~</p><p>Her throat was already a little sore by the time she reached the main reason her hour drive had landed her where it did. The wig shop was completely innocuous from the outside, just one of a dozen shopping strip units full of wares behind text-spattered windows. Totally normal; boring, even. Her pulse was pounding in her ears before she even turned off her car. She could put a pause on her practice, go in as just some normal, everyday dude looking for a girly wig. But she only had a couple days before the interview. No. If she was going to puss out over a wig shop with complete strangers she'd probably never see again, she didn't stand a chance for a freaking interview. She breathed in deep, felt her diaphragm expand, the weight of her hoodie, the shift of the seat belt. No time like the present.</p><p>She ignored her reflection in the windows as she approached so she didn't psych herself out, but she didn't quite manage to keep from flinching at the bell announcing her to the whole store. The cashier just gave her a bland smile and told her to ask if she needed help with anything. Normal as could be. She made a beeline to the back of the store for an illusion of privacy nonetheless.</p><p>The inside of the store looked like the wet dream of a TV interior decorator with a hard-on for storage space. Slat wall shelving and cabinets covered every inch of wall and there were half a dozen tables crowded with tiered displays. The mannequin wig stands, though. The strong scent of lavender in the room was probably meant to help customers keep calm while looking at the flat, listless faces painted on some of the stands, make them not dwell on the grotesquely long necks. Maybe it worked for other people, but her skin was crawling.</p><p>She took another deep breath and re-centered herself. The hunt was on for a side part or swept bangs to hide her forehead, shoulder length or longer to draw attention away from her jaw, and volume so her shoulders would be less glaringly broad, all in a color that fit with her skin tone. Should be easy enough if she could actually focus on the search while also trying to hold herself at the correct angles without looking like she was in pain. Her research on body language could be summarized with "soft, light, tight." She was wheat in a Midwest breeze, she was a fuckin' gauzy swimsuit cover wafting on a beach, she w—</p><p>On a large island display in the middle of the section for her size there was a pale ash blonde wig with side swept bangs and curls so loose they were almost waves. Homesickness swelled in her hard and painful like heartburn, but when she tried to remember why, all she found was slippery nothing. She probably looked like an idiot when she approached it cautiously, like it would spook. The strands were solid against her fingers, soft like hair, and she had no idea why she had expected anything different. Maybe she'd watched Silent Hill too recently or had a weird dream about fire and ash. Despite the weird intense reaction, despite the discomfort and confusion, she knew it was going home with her.</p><p>She went through the motions of browsing the rest of the section, grabbed all the accessories she'd need, dropped them off at the register, then carried the wire stand with the wig over with the same carefulness she would use with a bomb. The senior citizen cashier waxed poetic about how good the store's products were the whole time he rang her up, like he was trying to sell her things she was already buying. She decided that his 'business as usual' reaction towards her couldn't be generalized to the average person. Far too chipper and oblivious. But a good start for helping her not panic about how she was coming across.</p><p>~:::~</p><p>The ease with which she lied to polite strangers to get what she wanted should maybe worry her.</p><p>In the makeup store—the polar opposite of the wig shop with chemicals and powders instead of lavender, and pop music and chatty teens on their lunch break instead of silence and a single senior citizen—she was an identical twin looking for a birthday present for his sister. To the stunning, flirty sales associate who measured her for bras and helped her figure out how to stuff them, she was an actor ecstatic at getting his biggest role yet as Titania in an all-male production.</p><p>Her pulse had been hummingbird wings in the hollow of her throat on and off the entire time she was in the mall but she lied her ass off like a duck in water.</p><p>Her hands trembled when she rested them on her steering wheel after putting the shopping bags away. The dregs of adrenaline were still working their way through her. She wanted to relax, take deep breaths, rest her eyes, but momentum was so important. She had an hour’s drive back to her place and then a stop at a grocery store and then figuring out how to apply all the shit she just bought. A test before she went any further. Coffee, maybe. If she smoked, this would be a perfect time for a cigarette. Huh. There was a thought. Faking a smoking habit may throw off suspicions about her voice.</p><p>Who was she kidding, she’d probably actually develop a smoking habit. Especially if the blackout and the beer in the fridge was an indicator of an addictive personality.</p><p>Yeah, just coffee.</p><p>~:::~</p><p>It was early evening by the time she heaved all her bags onto her kitchen island. She made a mental note while rubbing the red marks on her wrists from the bag handles to check out one of the luggage carts from the front desk next time.</p><p>She multi-tasked heating and eating one of the frozen dinners she'd bought with preparing and cooking the sugar paste recipe she'd found for hair removal. She checked out a couple of the makeup blogs the saleswoman had recommended during the wait for the paste to cool. By the time there was a bare test patch on the outside of her thigh, she had decided on a makeup look to attempt and was ready to start putting what she'd bought to use.</p><p>Even with the dozen or so small makeup items, her spoils from the day didn't look like much considering all the stress—not to mention money—that had gone into their procurement. She didn't have time or energy to waste on feeling discouraged, though. She popped a cough drop and tore through everything's wrapping and tags.</p><p>~:::~</p><p>It took her just under an hour to get the bra straps adjusted right, figure out how to position the inserts so the molded cups wouldn't collapse under pressure, and get everything to stay in place as she moved. But she got it done.</p><p>The new sensations of cotton pulling against satin and her shirt brushing the skin of her abdomen instead of just resting on it faded out of awareness the more she concentrated on figuring out the makeup. Even with surgeon-steady hands she had a small pile of used makeup removal wipes at her elbow by the time she was satisfied. She had to admit that despite her wariness at the saleswoman's suggestion, the gold eyeshadow wasn't nearly as gaudy as she'd worried it was going to be once it was blended into the brown. Filling in her eyebrows was still her new least favorite thing to do, though. Even matching up the little wings of brown eyeliner had been easier, for fuck's sake. She did not envy women who actually removed hair to shape their eyebrows. Must be a goddamn nightmare.</p><p>Figuring out how to properly put the wig on was the easiest thing yet.</p><p>She had been careful to only hyperfocus on whatever specific area she was working on at the time so she couldn't get discouraged if things weren't matching up, and anticipation and hope and wariness swirled in her as she walked down the dimly lit hall into the bathroom. She took a deep breath before she felt for the light switch. The moment of truth, the moment when she'd see if she'd have a snowball's chance at pulling this off with so little prep time. Either way there were other interviews and, while her stock portfolio may be pathetic, she had enough savings that her spending spree was fine and she could always just donate everything if she chickened out. It wasn't the end of the world if she looked like Willem Dafoe in Boondock Saints. Please don't let her look like Willem Dafoe in Boondock Saints.</p><p>She flipped the switch and felt like she'd been sucker punched. There was a tiny flicker of panic before she anchored herself with everything she recognized and the stubble that her clumsy color corrector attempt still couldn't hide. Too much emotion wobbled in her chest as she took in the unfamiliar, the unambiguously feminine laid shimmery over her like faerie glamour.</p><p>People had always called her pretty. It was almost always a put down when it came from her peers growing up. With adults it was a toss up between attempted compliments, warnings about creeps, and creeps themselves. If she'd worn makeup like this and people had thought she was a girl when she was younger would there have been fewer comments out of fear of an overprotective relative? Or would there have just been more hands?</p><p>She needed a weapon if she was going to go out like this. Just looking a little like a prettyboy had gotten her harassed plenty and now she would have to deal with not only people who don't respect women in general, but people who hated women like her in particular. How fucked up was the world that being seen for what she really was would make her a target.</p><p>A couple tears failed to streak her make up, and she laughed at the taste of lipstick when she licked them away. Fuck, she was really going to do this. People might finally start calling her the right things.</p><p>~:::~</p><p>She only had one thing to do after dismantling her Look for the day. Using the sugar paste to rip her facial hair out was tedious and grueling and fucking painful but if her face didn't react well despite her test patch being fine she needed to know as soon as possible. She could barely keep her eyes open by the time she was rubbing moisturizer across her tender skin, but the satisfaction of how smooth it was powered her through not rushing it. Her facial hair had never made her uncomfortable, but there was definitely a tiny thrill of accomplishment and excitement that shot through her sluggish nerves at the feel of the soft cotton of her pillowcase against her hypersensitive, smoother-than-it'd-been-in-a-dozen-years cheek.</p><p>She slept like the un-risen dead.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If things need clarifying or there are weird typos/formatting issues, lemme know!</p><p>Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Clothes, introspection, victory, renaming</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first thing Dean did after waking up was shuffle hurriedly to the bathroom to check her reflection again. No stubble, no redness, no rash.</p>
<p>"Awesome," she whispered to her reflection, almost the same as it'd been the morning before but aglow with sheer potential. Phase one successful; experiment cleared for continuation. She grinned.</p>
<p>Vocal warm-ups still felt like a more intentional version of singing in the shower and thankfully there was no one in her apartment to think she was weird for talking to herself afterwards. Although it was more like rambling peppered with cussing when she messed up doing her makeup.</p>
<p>"Y'know," she said as she finished teasing out the clumps she'd accidentally made with the mascara, "this would all be a hell of a lot easier if people just didn't assume what you want to be called." She paused in wiping the tweezers clean of black gunk. "Although, technically, I guess I do the same thing." She finished cleaning them and put them away. "But what else would I do, ask? Sure-fire way to get my ass kicked at some point. Plus"—the lipstick tube popped open in time with her 'p'— "if some random-ass person had asked me a couple days ago—" smear on just the right places—"I'd've lied through my goddamn teeth." Rub lips together to assure full coverage, purse around a finger, pull out, check teeth, lipstick cap back on. "It is what it is, I guess: a shitty game we all got suckered in. But if it's the best way to clue other people in, I'm gonna play." Wig on, adjusting. "For now at least. Maybe I'll get established enough at some point that everyone will remember even if I dared to tone it down."</p>
<p>There, almost ready to go.</p>
<p>"Getting ahead of myself, though. Actually gotta land the job first. Which means—how the hell did I get eyeshadow on my <em>shoulder</em>?" More cussing as her attempt to clean it off just made things worse and she ended up with a glittery patch on her shirt. "Note to self: shirt should go on after eye makeup just in case."</p>
<p>She tossed the tissue in the trash, squared her shoulders—dropped back and down to remain ladylike—and gave her reflection a determined look. If she were an anime character she'd have a fist up and a gleam in her eyes. Being blonde and gussied up was new, but she was still <em>her</em>, which meant she was still a badass who didn't back down from a challenge.</p>
<p>"I'm going to kick this interview's ass, which means I need the clothes for the job. Literally. Time for shopping spree part two."</p>
<p>~:::~</p>
<p>It took a surprising amount of willpower to not slink her way to the back of the women's department in an effort to go unseen. Confidence was key. All four checks she'd done before leaving and on her way to the local mall had confirmed that she looked okay: soft makeup, wig positioned right, jaw smooth, boobs more or less even, though unflattered by her unzipped jacket. Only a couple people had taken a hard look at her after she left her apartment, one of whom had been the valet. She was trying not to think about how people with access to her keys had seen her in full guy mode. Confidence. She was just another tomboy looking to branch out. Nothin' to see here.</p>
<p>She unfolded the list stashed in her jacket pocket. Given there was a chance she'd be going back to full guy mode after the interview in a couple days there was no sense in buying a whole wardrobe. She'd only bought two bras; two outfits would make sense, too: one to practice in and the other to wear the day-of. So which supposed closet essentials should she go with?</p>
<p>Or maybe more pressing, what was going to fit her?</p>
<p>The optimal look for simple, flattering for her body shape, and professional seemed to be a dark single color top that helped shape her waist paired with a patterned skirt that would flare to give the illusion of curves and hide any bulge. Surely those types of clothes should be easy to find. Let the hunt begin.</p>
<p>~:::~</p>
<p>At first she had been taken by how much variety there was—fabric textures she'd never felt before, vivid colors and patterns, a million combinations of cuts and necklines and sleeves—and had again wondered why menswear was so drab in comparison. But having to figure out which sizing department would have things in her size, the discovery that sizing wasn't super consistent across brands, and the dawning realization that women's clothes resembled cable TV with hundreds of options and nothing that was quite what you wanted quickly sucked the awe out of her and replaced it with growing frustration.</p>
<p>She hadn't noticed at the time but now she was kind of pissed how in all her research there hadn't been any real discussion about androgyny. Not that she'd go full menswear, but at least slacks being on the table would make matching so much easier. But no. Given her height, shoulders, and lack of curves, she might be mistaken for a guy from behind even with her wig. If she wanted to pull this off with so little time to practice the voice and body language aspects, she had to give as many easy-to-read clues as she could. She just had to find a blouse and skirt that were both comfortable and matched. Should be simple. Absolutely was not, as it turned out. How the fuck did other women do this?</p>
<p>Well, to be fair to herself, she thought as she again ran her hands over the latest skirt, most other women didn't start from scratch as grown adults. She didn't regret all her years in boy mode, but fuck if it wouldn't have been nice if she'd started this sooner, when she didn’t have to worry about looking professional.</p>
<p>It'd taken a couple hours, but she finally had one outfit picked out: a long sleeve deep purple top with a tie at the waist and a flared white knee-length skirt with a floral print she was about 80% sure matched the shirt . Not exactly the most neutral of colors, but it hit all the marks. Finessing the second outfit was giving her enough trouble to make her consider just getting the one and washing it three times in the same number of days.</p>
<p>She sighed and stepped out of the pale pink skirt she'd been trying. The fabric was soft and looked like a long tutu but it laid flat enough that she didn't feel certain it'd hide her crotch if need be. Turned out a lot of styles and fabrics had that issue. And a lot of the necklines that drew attention away from her shoulders let her tattoo peek out. She was going to have to figure out how to conceal it or invest in tank tops to wear underneath. She'd kick drunk 28-year-old her's ass if she could, or at least bribe her into better placement. Oh well.</p>
<p>The second to last garment she'd brought to the changing room from the latest run took a second to figure out, but she made a pleased noise when she zipped it and looked in the mirror. Dresses would limit her ability to mix and match and she had hesitated to even pick this one out, but it also hit all the boxes: v-neck, 3/4-sleeves, dark top, tie belt, lighter flared skirt. Limited ability to mix and match also meant she didn't have to worry if colors and patterns matched. Pretty fair trade now that she thought about it. She did her impression of martial art stretches to make sure it wasn't too tight anywhere and huffed triumphantly when she stilled. Fucking finally.</p>
<p>"Now for shoes. I swear to fucking god if it takes as long as this did—"</p>
<p>~:::~</p>
<p>The bag that held her hard-earned pair of shoes was built to hold more than one shoebox which meant she managed to get almost all of her clothes in the bag too. The dress stayed on a hanger because even the thought of figuring out how best to fold it annoyed her. One bag and one hanger meant that checking out one of the concierge carts wasn't needed and she should have enough free movement to grab her mail on her way up.</p>
<p>As fancy as her new place was, the area with all the apartment's mail boxes was pretty standard. Yeah, there was a gilded glass table with free stationary and the mail box doors had intricate designs etched into them, but it was still just a tiny room with a bunch of small brass-colored doors with little keyholes. Little enough to be surprisingly tricky to unlock and lock with a bag on one's wrist. Although maybe the issue boiled down the shoe bag, considering it was also refusing to be wedged open wide enough by the mail for her to be able to drop it in.</p>
<p>She was a frustrated moment away from putting the infernal bag on the floor for better maneuverability when a voice to her side startled her.</p>
<p>"If I may, miss?"</p>
<p>Dean didn't even want to know what kind of ridiculous gobsmacked face she was making as she stared down at the small Asian woman reaching towards her bag. The other woman adjusted the strap so the opening widened, and it took an embarrassing couple of seconds before it clicked and Dean dropped her mail in on top of her clothes.</p>
<p><em>Miss</em>. It'd finally happened. She'd finally been called the right thing, all while looking like a clumsy weirdo. Warm giddiness suffused through her, bubbling like champagne, and radiating out of her in probably the biggest grin she'd had since she was a kid.</p>
<p>Her "thank you" came out breathy and glowing and the other woman's mouth and eyebrows twitched up in confused amusement.</p>
<p>"Don't mention it."</p>
<p>The woman turned her attention to a mailbox a couple doors down from Dean's, interaction smoothly ended, and Dean felt buoyant as she headed towards the elevators. She tried to tame the grin and not only couldn't but found herself rocking on the balls of her feet and sporadically laughing the whole way to her apartment.</p>
<p>The second her door was locked behind her she pumped her fist and let out a loud, unladylike shout of, "Fuck! yes!"</p>
<p>She set her clothes on top of the washer and started down the hall to the living room, one hand holding the bag with her shoes and mail and the other holding up an imaginary microphone.</p>
<p>She pitched her voice in boy mode for the first time that day. "Well, <b>miss</b>, it seemed like you were losing a little energy there towards the end, but you pushed through. How's it feel to have your hard work pay off?"</p>
<p>Softer voice, "I admit I was losing my patience a bit—there may or may not have been some yelling in the changing rooms before I figured out how to take off a shirt without almost taking my hair with it, and I'll probably be brought up at the shoe department worker's family dinner tonight. But, Bob, I tell ya: worth it. We're against the clock on this but we're not giving up and we're already kicking ass before we've even completed our basic training. We're back to full steam ahead if I could just... find the goddamn scissors."</p>
<p>She looked up from the third empty kitchen drawer at the moving boxes still taking up almost the entire living room.</p>
<p>"Right. Probably in a box somewhere. Okay. Game plan: First, track down something to cut tags off with. Second, get clothes to washing. Third, put on shoes and practice walking while unpacking. May as well also practice interview answers too while I'm at it. Fourth, at some point shave or sugar my legs. That last one's gonna be a real pain in the ass but it is what it is." She groaned when her stomach sent a distress signal. "Revision: clothes in the wash, then lunch. And a note to self that I <em>seriously</em> need to go grocery shopping tomorrow. Supposed to eat health to help my voice--which doesn't make sense to me cuz what does diet have to do with vocal cords? Hmph. Either way, TV dinners can't be helping in that area. Alright, plan in place. 3, 2, 1, break!"</p>
<p>~:::~</p>
<p>"What I can bring to this company is a sharp and efficient set of people skills. I take the view that the way into a client's heart is making them feel heard. I'm a great listener, as is basically required to be good at what you do in this area. My edge over other candidates is that I've got personality and I'm not shy about it. I don't fake my conversations, I don't pretend to be someone I'm not—" She stopped dead center in the living room mid-step. The short heel click-landed as awkwardly as it had a couple hours ago when she'd first been figuring out how to walk in her new shoes.</p>
<p><em>Don't pretend to be someone I'm not.</em> Was that actually accurate? In the past she'd let people call her the wrong thing—even called <em>herself</em> the wrong thing—so as to not rock the boat and possibly get fired. Now she was intending for as few people as possible to know what gender she'd been living as up til now.</p>
<p>If a trans chick is strategic and doesn't correct others, is what other people take away from that a bunch of lies? How many assumptions could a presumptuous person assume if a presumptuous person could assume? How responsible was she for fallen trees and woodchucks?</p>
<p>She looked down at the extra towels she'd been taking on a tour around her apartment on the way to the bathroom. Even when she'd been playing the cards she'd been dealt like gender was a game of poker, she'd always been <em>herself</em>. So maybe a better question was why her cards were anyone else's damn business. If she wanted to call herself a guy, that was her business. If she wanted to switch gears to be called what she actually was, also her business. Not pretending so much as just going about her life in a way most people didn't have to think twice about. And, really, why should <em>she</em> have to think twice when plenty people called themselves things they weren't without it being seen as a lie? Plenty of women called themselves "just one of the guys" and it was fine. She was pretty sure drag queens called themselves feminine things all the time. Double standard bullshit. Even when in guy mode she was exactly herself: a trans woman making a decision that was her business and hers alone.</p>
<p>She squared her shoulders and continued her circuitous path to the bathroom.</p>
<p>"I don't fake my conversations, I find common ground to stand firmly on so I'm not an ass-kisser or pushover. I meet the clients where they are and make investing in our product their idea. Long story short: I'm excellent at what I do and I'm genuinely likable while doing it."</p>
<p>There. Nothing even resembling a lie in sight.</p>
<p>~:::~</p>
<p>Dean collapsed onto her newly-cleared couch, propped her bare feet up on the tower of throw pillows, and dropped the arm holding the lotion over her eyes to block out the kitchen light.</p>
<p>"I am so tired. And sore. <em>Why</em> am I so fucking sore? These freaking heels are barely taller than my hiking boots. I mean, all shoes gotta be broken into, I get that, but"—she flexed her toes and the dull burning ache that had barely simmered down went back to a full boil—"this is just ridiculous. How the fuck people do that six inch shit is beyond me. If I ever go back to a strip club, I'm tipping extra just because they're doing it while wearing torture devices."</p>
<p>She groaned with a melodrama that came from her diaphragm when she brought one ankle to the other leg's knee. She squinted against the light, uncapped the lotion, and groaned again when she started rubbing the cream into her freshly sugar-waxed calf.</p>
<p>"If this Sandover place has any kind of dress code that calls for heels everyday, they could not pay me enough to take the job. My next work shoes for girl mode are going to be the flattest fucking shoes I can find. With a bow or some shit so they don't look like loafers. Or something gender neutral. Most sandals and sneakers aren't work appropriate, though, and really what else is there?" She paused in squeezing more lotion into her palm. Snorted. "Cowboy boots. Imagine showing up to an urban middle management interview covered in suede fringe. I would respect the hell out of anyone who could pull it off." A hiss pushed through her teeth when she started massaging lotion into the ball of her foot.</p>
<p>She fell silent for the first time since she got home, letting her use-raspy voice rest as she focused on moisturizing and chasing out pain. The day had been productive as hell. Clothes, practice at girl mode, practice for interviews, at least half unpacked. The main plan for tomorrow was getting some real food in the place. She had a lot of recipes on her laptop, most of which should be healthy enough to not compromise her voice. So the trick was to consolidate how much of what to buy into a grocery list. Should be a breeze. Could wait until morning. She would add getting women's deodorant to the shopping list but hold off on replacing her soap and shampoo for something soft-scented. Her interviewers shouldn't be close enough to smell her shampoo anyways. Deodorant was definitely a bigger concern. Maybe look for adhesives that would prevent blisters from new shoes. What else? A portfolio for her resume. Paper towels and toilet paper.</p>
<p>She paused in the middle of swiping lotion from where it'd clung to her middle finger cuticle. Nail polish? Her nails were short but not the most tidy. She had no idea how involved or difficult painting one's nails was. But surely nail salons existed for a reason. More research for tomorrow morning.</p>
<p>Another flex of her toes wasn't quite as painful as before the pampering. Her legs were smooth when she rubbed them together curiously.</p>
<p>"Like a dolphin's belly."</p>
<p>If so much of her blood wasn't dedicated to making everything past her knees throb she may have found the novel silkiness kind of arousing. Another day, maybe. This one, thank fuck, was just about over.</p>
<p>She wiggled her feet to make a breeze on them and turned her attention to the view of the city and lake through the wall of windows. It was well past sunset and the city lights were going strong, keeping the dark and the quiet at bay. She'd leave the blinds up tonight since she wasn't about to be waltzing around naked and had decided not to rub one out for now. Falling asleep on the couch would be a very bad idea, though; the last thing she needed was a crick in her neck.</p>
<p>The mail that had been dumped then forgotten on the counter caught her eye and had her detouring from the walk to her bedroom. Just a grocery ad for "current resident" and a pamphlet welcoming her to the building and touting all the amenities offered. Nothing actually for <em>her</em>, which reminded her: she needed to tell the USPS about the address change and get her driver's license updated with the new address. Hopefully if she got the job and had to do hiring paperwork they'd be lenient about the address being out of date.</p>
<p>She froze halfway through throwing the mail in the recycles bin.</p>
<p><em>Shit</em>. Legal documents. "Dean," "M," the picture on her license. There was no way she was going to be able to get all that changed in a timely manner. She wasn't sure how much of it could even <em>be</em> changed. Fuck.</p>
<p>The drawer with the waste bins slamming shut was too quiet for the emotion that had spurred it. No. She hadn't done all this shit the past two days just to give up over something that probably only HR or whoever did hiring would really see. She'd just have to work with what she had. And pretty much all she had was her appearance, her practice, and "D" on her resume instead of "Dean." She could stick with her legal name to avoid push-back. Girls with guys’ names wasn't unheard of; she'd known a girl "Ryan" back in college and hadn’t thought twice about it. But no way was she going to let people get her gender wrong before even seeing her. So not her legal name. Going by something other than one's legal name was common—hell, her dad didn't go by "Robert" and Jo didn't go by her full name.</p>
<p>She turned off lights on her way to her bedroom and changed into pajamas before heading to the bathroom to dismantle her look.</p>
<p>So a new name, then. But something she'd respond to with such short notice, something that sounded close to her boy mode name.</p>
<p>Wig unclipped and settled on stand.</p>
<p>D for... Deanna? No, grandma vibes. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but maybe not great for her line of work.</p>
<p>Peach, gold, and brown wiped from her eyelids, black from her lashes.</p>
<p>D for... Deena? No, Las Vegas poker player vibes.</p>
<p>Beige foundation, light brown from eyebrows, barely-there blush.</p>
<p>D for... Dinah. Nah, the cat from <em>Alice in Wonderland</em>.</p>
<p>Smears of pink lipstick.</p>
<p>D for... Deidre. God, no, may as well go with 'doily.'</p>
<p>Cool water, lathered face wash.</p>
<p>D for... Diana. Too many famous people she didn't know much about.</p>
<p>Pat dry. Moisturizer.</p>
<p>D for... fucking <em>D</em>.</p>
<p>Bra unhooked. Awkwardly pausing with it half off.</p>
<p>Dee. That's a name. It had the bulk of her boy mode name, and if she accidentally added the 'n' back in while talking there was a chance the other person wouldn't notice. It sounded a little childish, but she could play that off as the reason she'd shortened it on her resume: to keep her from sounding too young to be experienced.</p>
<p>Bra and inserts set aside, pampered-flush face naked in the mirror.</p>
<p>"Dean. Dee."</p>
<p>Her face, same as ever, with or without makeup.</p>
<p>"Hello, my name is Dee Smith."</p>
<p>Her smile, eyes sparkling, a touch softer than it would have been three days ago.</p>
<p>"Nice to meet you, Dee."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>don't worry, next chapter she'll talk to someone other than herself lol</p>
<p>kudos and comments make my day~~ &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dee makes a friend and, not to spoil it or anything, gets the job.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>cw: there is internalized transphobia and canon misgendering in the dream sequence, which is skip-able (it's in italics towards the end)</p>
<p>many thanks to shantiballecter for beta-ing &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was only the second morning and Dee had already shaved five minutes off getting all gussied up and dressed after her shower.</p>
<p>The rest of the morning was spent unpacking, practicing self-introductions, researching, and compiling lists. A loud, angry grumble from her stomach punctuated the finalizing of her grocery list and a glance at her phone said it was finally fucking lunch time.</p>
<p>She pulled up the directions to the restaurant she'd picked out earlier on her phone, put on her heels, plucked her wallet and keys from the bowl on the end table by the front door, tucked her hands near her hips, and ran into an unforeseen problem. Phone, keys, wallet into the bowl, patting and running her hands along her skirt. Fractional heart rate increase, frown, slightly frantic and incredibly awkward pulling her skirt up and checking underneath. Nothing.</p>
<p>No pockets.</p>
<p>"Where the hell am I supposed to put my— oh, are you <em>fucking</em> kidding me." She pinched the bridge of her nose and took a slow inhale. "Like coordinating the clothes and shoes isn't hard enough, they gotta throw purses in as <em>mandatory</em>? Guy clothes are boring, but girl clothes are turning out to be a real fuckin' pain. Can I just get a happy medium here? Just pockets! That doesn't seem like too much to ask. God!" She was too hungry for this shit. She'd just have to carry everything for now.</p>
<p>As she was waiting for the valet to bring her car around, she browsed the internet for purses and discovered a hypothesis regarding the lack of pockets. Things in pockets bulge, which would impact one's silhouette. But ladies are supposed to be eye candy first and foremost, and lumpy pockets aren't helpful towards that end. And purses, it turned out, can be expensive as hell for something that seemed to basically just be a leather or fabric grocery bag. So sexism and companies wanting to make money were to blame, what else was new.</p>
<p>Her sulking lasted all the way up until she got a great parking spot at the little local restaurant she found during her research, and all remnants dispersed when she took her first bite of the internet-recommended cheeseburger she'd come for.</p>
<p>"Mmmfuck that's good," she murmured past a moan and mouthful. Movement in the her periphery had her looking over at the table next to her as she thumbed excess ketchup from the corner of her lips, lightly over her lipstick, and into her mouth where it belonged, and she made eye contact with an elderly woman whose features almost disappeared in the deep-set wrinkles scrunched in disgust and scandal. Right. Not very ladylike. The movement may have been the waitress scribbling on her order pad, and Dee followed her expectant gaze to the dappled-skinned teenager grinning as he looked between Dee and the expression on probably-his-grandma's face.</p>
<p>"And what can I get for you?" the waitress asked, probably not for the first time, going by her tone.</p>
<p>"Gimme some of whatever she's got," he said, tilting his head towards Dee, "but hold any onions."</p>
<p>Dee could feel her cheeks warming as she turned her attention back to her lunch, both at the embarrassing thought that she had pulled a Meg Ryan and at the happy jolt of being called 'she' even when her hold on what she was supposed to act and sound like had slipped. She reined things in to avoid further scandal, and enjoyed every bit of what might be her last truly tasty meal for a while if her interview went well. A delicious cheeseburger and perfectly seasoned steak fries were a solid consolation prize for how painfully healthy her grocery list was.</p>
<p>~~:::~~</p>
<p>Dee stepped up to the concierge desk in her apartment building with a car full of groceries and a throat full of anxious hope. The front desk person—one she hadn't seen yet, one whose skin looked like it had been colored with a pink crayon and whose hair looked it like it got the yellow crayon—beamed up at her. White crayon.</p>
<p>"How can I help you?"</p>
<p>Dee smiled back, smaller. "Hi. I was hoping I could check out one of the carts so I can get my groceries in one go." Crap, missed opportunity to say it like a question.</p>
<p>"Of course. Give me just a second to get the log filled out for you to sign."</p>
<p>Dee didn't lift her eyes from the binder the man was writing in. "Do you need my ID or anything?" Please no, please no.</p>
<p>"Nah, we only use it for collateral and I know where you live if you don't bring it back. You and your husband moved into the empty apartment on the sixth floor the other day, right?" There was a lot to process in that seven seconds of speech. She looked down when he slid the open binder and a pen across the counter to her.</p>
<p>Husband? She'd definitely remember if she was married. And if someone else had been living with her the past couple days. Which meant he thought she was married to herself. That could be a good thing: it would give her a decent cover if she went back to boy mode or had to switch back and forth like Mrs. Doubtfire. Either spouse could travel a lot for work. But if they were never, ever seen together that might seem weird. And plenty people were more attentive than this guy and that thing where couples look like each other could only be stretched so far.</p>
<p>"Uh, brother, actually. Although I'm sure he'd get a kick out of hearing someone thought we were married." She and Jo had been mistaken as a couple plenty of times and Dee had occasionally found it amusing. Especially if her little brother's eyes rolled so hard at her teasing it looked painful.</p>
<p>The scribble of her signature came to a stilted stop.</p>
<p>Sister. She had a little <em>sister</em>.</p>
<p>She may be spending too much time thinking about gender if she was accidentally switching up other people too. Although that wouldn't explain why her thoughts had been tinged brunette and blue-green instead of blonde and brown. It might be a good idea to see a neurologist or something. Memory loss from being an alcoholic was one thing, hallucinating wrong memories was a whole other ballpark.</p>
<p>Nothing she could do about it until she had health insurance, which meant landing a job. She smiled as she slid the binder back over.</p>
<p>"All set." The receptionist gestured grandly at the trio of carts to the side of the counter. "Help yourself."</p>
<p>~~:::~~</p>
<p>Sure enough, things went a lot smoother with the trolley. Say what you will about pretentious apartment buildings, the perks might be worth it.</p>
<p>Her feet were starting to ache again by the time she took the elevator back down to the lobby. Grocery shopping had meant around an hour on her feet, so she was pretty satisfied with the stamina. Her kind of job didn't usually involve being on one's feet for long periods of time unless doing a presentation. She should have plenty time to find something more comfortable before such an occasion arose if the people at Sandover were half-decent and gave her time to catch up.</p>
<p>A peal of tiny laughter reached Dee even before she turned the corner into the lobby and saw a small commotion by the entrance. The woman from the mail room broke away from the activity and reached the concierge desk a few moments before Dee, who altered her path a little to form a line. The laughter, if she had to guess, had come from the toddler in the carrier strapped to the woman's back. The toddler who was straining to look behind themself to stare at Dee. She smiled and waved. The baby put something in its mouth.</p>
<p>"Hi. I need to check out a trolley, please?"</p>
<p>Ah, the pile of boxes by the door must be hers.</p>
<p>"Can I get your driver's license?"</p>
<p>Hold up, <em>what?</em></p>
<p>The woman called out something definitely not in English towards the door and a kid popped up and ran to presumably-his-mom. He turned around to present his Batman backpack to her, which she started to search. Her work-around for no pockets, probably.</p>
<p>And, yeah, the guy at the desk was definitely the one that had let Dee take her trolley no-problem.</p>
<p>The guy looked almost bored as the woman's body language tilted towards frantic and he just nodded when she said she'd be right back and speed walked to where the valet was pulling the last of the boxes out of a silver van.</p>
<p>"Miss Smith!" Dee glanced at the guy's grin and then name tag. <em>Andy</em>, huh? "You ready to sign it back in?"</p>
<p>A plan was blooming in Dee's head. "Not... yet…. "</p>
<p>The woman slammed the rolling side door to her van shut just as Dee walked up, and was unzipping the kid's backpack again when Dee spoke.</p>
<p>"Hey, uh,"—three pairs of eyes on her suddenly made her nervous. "I can't help you find your ID, but I have a trolley already checked out; I could help you get your stuff up to your apartment, at least? If you'd like? As thanks for the mail thing yesterday." She <em>nailed</em> making a question out of a statement, hell yeah.</p>
<p>An owlish blink, like the woman had honestly forgotten something from the day before. The little boy with the Batman backpack—five years old, maybe—looked up at his probably-mom.</p>
<p>"You don't need to. I'm sure my wallet's in here somewhere."</p>
<p>"It's no trouble, really, and it looks like you could use an extra pair of hands either way."</p>
<p>The woman sighed and nodded.</p>
<p>"Thank you. Everything's already inside, give me a second to let the valet know."</p>
<p>The little boy followed Dee inside to await further instructions. He looked up a couple times and she could tell he wanted to say something, but stranger danger was probably kicking in. Dee didn't know how to small talk with a five-year-old. Compliment his backpack? Say his spiked hair was cool? Asking about school was probably creepy in the same way asking where he lives would have been if she didn't already know. Well, the woman may have partial custody, or could be an aunt he was visiting, so he might not actually live there. Assumptions, assumptions. Still, better to stay away from possibly creepy things.</p>
<p>The woman saved Dee from anything that might have come out of her mouth by catching up with them and giving instructions without an ounce of shyness. They had the cardboard boxes, plastic crates, and handful of grocery bags stacked and stable on the trolley in a snap. "Andy" squinted at them slightly as they passed the desk, and Dee started wondering if this kind of discrimination called for asking to talk to his manager or something. That could just backfire and lead to him retaliating. The manager could have told him to do it, though; this lady may have run off with a bunch of stuff or something. Although Dee couldn’t imagine what they thought she was going to do with a trolley full-time.</p>
<p>"The front desk guy didn't ask for my ID when I checked this out. How come he asked for yours?" she asked once they were in the elevator.</p>
<p>"Honestly, who knows," the woman replied dryly as she pushed the button for the same floor as Dee. Not surprising given how close their mailboxes were. "Maybe he doesn't like kids. Maybe cuz you're both white. Maybe he was flirting with you. Maybe he got told off after letting you off easy. Could be a million things."</p>
<p>Dee nodded and the woman stuck her hand out.</p>
<p>"I'm"—she said something that sounded close to but not at all like 'Susan'—“by the way. Nice to meet you."</p>
<p>Dee accepted the handshake. "Sorry: Soo...?"</p>
<p>Again with a sound that seemed to be a few consonants jammed into one letter.</p>
<p>"Soo chin? Soo zin? Sorry."</p>
<p>The poor woman was just trying to introduce herself and Dee felt bad at the facade of patience that came over her face, probably the same expression she had when her kids were being annoying but did actually need help.</p>
<p>"S o o hyphen j i n. Soo-jin."</p>
<p>That was definitely not how Dee usually pronounced the letter j. But if a word had sounds not found in English, she supposed people tried to use the closest fit. There could well be languages that her own name was hard to say in. Given how much Soo-jin probably had to hear her name butchered, Dee kinda hoped to never find out first-hand.</p>
<p>Dee’s self-introduction was just in time for the elevator reaching their floor. The little boy shot out as soon as the doors were open enough and ran halfway down the hallway before turning towards them.</p>
<p>"I'm Min-jun," he announced, half-shouting. "And that's my baby brother, Min-jae!" he continued, pointing at the toddler on Soo-jin's back.</p>
<p>"What do you say, Min-jun?"</p>
<p>"Nice to meet you, Miss Smith!"</p>
<p>Dee couldn't quite tamp down her grin at the childish enthusiasm and that he didn't even hesitate on what term to call her.</p>
<p>"You too, Min-jun. Did I get it right?"</p>
<p>"You did okay!"</p>
<p>Soo-jin paused with her key in the lock of the apartment two down from Dee's and looked over at her.</p>
<p>"I should warn you, it's very messy. You don't have to come in, I can get it all off and give the trolley back real quick."</p>
<p>"I don't mind mess, and I'm happy to help."</p>
<p>"If you say so."</p>
<p>Soo-jin and Min-jun paused by the door to do something before Soo-jin guided the trolley into the apartment. It <em>was</em> messy, even more than Dee was expecting from kids leaving toys around. Three of the dining table chairs to her right were stacked with laundry, only some folded. The kitchen counter and island were covered in styrofoam food containers, dirty dishes, and stacks of paper. There were toys and crayons all over the place. But Dee had seen much, much worse when she shared a room with Ash.</p>
<p>Just as she was taking a step further than the little welcome mat, suddenly there were unyielding tiny hands on her lower tummy, making her flinch back.</p>
<p>"Min-jun!" came a chastisement from the kitchen, and the kid had the grace to look sheepish as he pointed behind Dee towards the door.</p>
<p>When Dee looked, there were shelves on the floor full of shoes. And when she checked, Min-jun was now no longer wearing the Spider-Man shoes he had been earlier.</p>
<p>"You're supposed to take your shoes off when you come in, Miss Smith. So the floor doesn't get too dirty."</p>
<p>"She's just going to be here a minute, and more importantly she's a guest so we're politer than that," Soo-jin corrected. She was already a good part of the way done with unloading everything even with the baby still on her back.</p>
<p>Dee took a step back and smiled at the fidgeting kid.</p>
<p>"That's okay. Tell you the truth, I kind of hate these shoes, totally happy to take them off." At least they slipped off easily enough. "Oh yeah, definitely better." It did feel a little weird to be barefoot in the apartment of someone she just met, though.</p>
<p>Min-jun's eyes had widened a little at her light, conspiratory tone and he was staring down at her bland kitten heels like they had a secret to reveal. "If you hate them, how come you wear them?"</p>
<p>Dee headed over to finally help unload the trolley. "Practicing for when I have a job."</p>
<p>"You don't have a job?! But <acronym>eomma</acronym> said most grown-ups do!"</p>
<p>Dee set the boxes where Soo-jin pointed and awkwardly brushed her hair over her shoulder before looking at Min-jun, who had moved to watch them from over the back of a leather couch.</p>
<p>"Who said??"</p>
<p>"Me," Soo-jin piped up from the open fridge. "'<acronym>Eomma</acronym>' means mom. I used to be a housewife until very recently and I had to explain that it's more normal for me to have a job than to not. And we don't ask people why they don't have jobs because sometimes it makes people sad!" The last bit was said louder, clearly aimed at her confirmed son.</p>
<p>"It's not a sore subject," Dee reassured. "I'm new in town and I actually have an interview tomorrow that I'm hopeful about. Last are the crates, where do you want them?"</p>
<p>"If you could lean them against the end of the island, please."</p>
<p>Dee did so and only had to wait a moment before Soo-jin closed the fridge door with a jingle of glass jars and turned.</p>
<p>"Min-jun, where'd you put your backpack?"</p>
<p>Dee tried not to wince when Soo-jin mercilessly up-ended its contents onto the already messy island. A pencil box, a binder, a flurry of papers, and a wallet fell out and Dee could see the relief on her face.</p>
<p>"Thank fuuu—" Dee followed her wide, caught-out gaze to the eager little-boy-waiting-to-hear-a-swear face. "—ul. Thankful, that it's here, and that Miss Smith helped us out. What do we say, Min-jun?"</p>
<p>Dee grinned. Nice save.</p>
<p>Dee waved off the thanks, joked at the standing offer to ask for a favor in return, slipped back into her shoes, and made her way down to the lobby alone. It was noticeably quiet without an excited five-year-old and laughing baby.</p>
<p>She didn't say anything in her defense to Andy's odd looks. She hadn't done anything that warranted defensiveness, after all, unlike <em>some</em> people.</p>
<p>Her shoes came off tucked under the stand by her front door as soon as she walked in. Min-jun made a strong case for less cleaning, and Dee was all for anything that brought reprieve from the heels even a second earlier. She sighed when she came into her open plan living area that was conspicuously bland compared to the framed art in Soo-jin’s place, not to mention the kid art pinned across the dining room wall like laundry on a clothesline. It was messy, yeah, but felt so much more like a home than Dee's place. When she was more settled in, she would look into actual decor besides her childhood model car collection. But right now was for finishing touches on her interview prep. Time to review the questions she was going to ask the interviewers and figure out manicures.</p>
<p>~~:::~~</p>
<p>She should, honestly, really, <em>seriously</em> know better than to assume something that seems simple is actually easy by now. Sure, tidying her nails up wasn't that hard, but nail polish? Surely a test in patience to weed out the weak. Except she was pretty sure there were literal children better at it than her.</p>
<p>Were her coats too thick? Was she still not waiting long enough between coats? Or waiting <em>too</em> long between coats? Was she doing the base coat wrong? Did she just buy too-cheap nail polish destined to clump and bubble? It was like makeup all over again where her hands were steady as fuck, and she was coloring inside the lines like a pro this time, but yet there was still a pile of cotton balls with smears of dusky pink littering her dining table.</p>
<p>She could just give up, use a nail brush soaked in nail polish remover to get rid of the lingering pink lining her cuticles, just find professionals later on or find how-to videos that taught a different method. But she was annoyed and, as her dad once said, she was stubborner than heat in summer. Of course, he'd said that upon seeing the slightly dangerous jerry-rigged air conditioning she'd set up when she learned the replacement part for their broken A/C was going to take half of July to come in the mail when she was 14. Still counted. If she couldn't learn from cosmetics videos, maybe she needed to learn face-to-face from a fellow layperson.</p>
<p>~~:::~~</p>
<p>It'd only been a couple hours, but Soo-jin looked distinctly more sleep deprived than before, the puffiness of her eyes accentuated by the slight squint she gave Dee after she made her request.</p>
<p>"...Why are you asking me, specifically?"</p>
<p>Dee's eyes flickered to the chipped electric blue nail polish on Soo-jin's fingernails. She'd figured chipped meant done at home, but maybe not.</p>
<p>"I, uh, assumed you painted your own nails, I guess? If you don't, maybe you could recommend a place to me? Like I said, I'm new in town, and you're the closest I've got to a friend at the moment. But I know it's weird, I shouldn't have—"</p>
<p>"No, just—" she tilted her head slightly and even her ponytail was less tidy than before. "It's not just because I'm Asian, right?"</p>
<p>Oh. Crap.</p>
<p>"I don't...think so...?" She was pretty sure she'd have asked for the same favor if Soo-jin had been a different race. Almost definitely. But her relationship with assumptions was complicated lately. Who could really say until they actually found themselves in a given situation?</p>
<p>Based on the small, wry smile flashed Dee's way, Soo-jin wasn't too offended, thank god. "Y'know what, Miss Smith, I'll take it. A little second guessing can go a long way. You're sure you don't mind the mess now that you've seen it?"</p>
<p>"Seriously, you can call me Dee. And one hundred percent."</p>
<p>"Come on in, then."</p>
<p>~~:::~~</p>
<p>It turned out that Dee still hadn't gone thin enough with the coats of nail polish—fuck her for not going so thin the paint was barely visible—<em>and</em> hadn't given them enough time to dry. Maybe the one-coat-and-done people were magicians among mortals. She muttered the sarcastic comment under her breath, but somehow Min-jun overheard and ran with the topic. Dee learned enough Harry Houdini trivia to write a book about the guy by the time Soo-jin decreed the paint job completed and ready for inspection. It passed with flying colors immediately when Min-jae, who had half-climbed into Dee's lap within minutes of her settling at the dining table, somehow clumsily hit his sippy cup right against Dee's nails and the nail polish stayed strong.</p>
<p>Soo-jin's scoff of amusement was interrupted by probably her tenth yawn between painting and cooking and Dee felt a little guilty about her apparent bad timing. The boys probably would have been much calmer without a new guest hanging out and Soo-jin may well have gotten done with dinner faster without all the distraction. Best not to overstay her welcome if she hadn't already.</p>
<p>She lowered the toddler onto his feet and tucked the chair back in as she stood.</p>
<p>"Thank you so much, Soo-jin, I seriously appreciate your help and know-how."</p>
<p>Soo-jin waved the thanks away with a cooking spoon, focused on something on the counter.</p>
<p>"I'll get out of your hair, then, unless I can help with something?"</p>
<p>Soo-jin didn't look up, but the small wry smile was back. "My mother would be ashamed of me if I didn't ask if you want to stay for dinner after getting to smell it."</p>
<p>"I won't snitch on you. Your oldest, on the other hand...."</p>
<p>Min-jun let out an indignant "what" that got a laugh out of both Dee and his mom, which prompted Min-jae to squeal and shake his sippy cup with an energy that made Dee glad he wasn't near her face anymore.</p>
<p>"But seriously," Soo-jin reined in the conversation, finally looking over at Dee, "do you want some?"</p>
<p>It smelled delicious, but she’d already imposed and Soo-jin may have just been offering to be polite. Although, maybe it would be more rude to just up and leave after she got the favor she’d asked for? Or maybe Soo-jin was offering in the sense that Dee take it to her own apartment to eat. There were too many maybes and when it came down to it, Dee didn’t want to impose anymore than she already had.</p>
<p>"It smells great, but maybe some other time?" Hopefully that was open enough to not be presumptuous.</p>
<p>"Alright, a rain check then. Good luck with your interview, and I'll see you around?"</p>
<p>"Sure thing. And thank you again. Bye, Min-jun!"</p>
<p>Dee saw herself out.</p>
<p>~~:::~~</p>
<p>The rest of the evening was a smoothie dinner and a last round of interview practice before turning in early and being unable to sleep for another hour.</p>
<p>She dreamed.</p>
<p>
  <em>Moving boxes were stacked like labyrinth hedge walls that started at eye level and got taller as she walked, blocking all but the dimmest light. The tasteful flooring of her apartment faded to something soft that ground against itself under her bare feet. All semblance of her apartment evaporated until there was nothing but boxes and haze and the threat of heat. The walls started getting closer together, squeezing her into smaller and smaller pathways and anxiety started clawing up her throat—and bloomed into panic when she suddenly hit a dead end. There hadn't been any options about where to turn, only one winding path and it fucking ended in—</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She threw all her body weight at the tower of boxes at her right. The very top, so high it was barely visible, swayed and every box except the last scattered and fell like dice, and a scream rang out in the static silence. She knew that scream, how did she—</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She was in a clearing. Any boxes were hidden by the thick fog that made it hard to see more than a few yards in front of herself. Should she call out? Someone else had been in the maze, maybe they could call out and follow their voices to each other. Two heads are always better than one. She took in a breath to yell out.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Dee turned towards the figure emerging from the clinging fog. "Which, conveniently, I am. You, that is."</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>It was. It looked like Andy the front desk person, but the voice and eyes were hers.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>"Don't want to drag them down with you, do you? Burden them," it drawled.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Dee didn't know what to say to that.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>"What's up with all this, anyway?" It sneered and waved a hand at her. She looked down. She was in her girl mode trappings. "You really think anyone's gonna see you as a chick? And that they're going to hire you looking like that? You're not special. Go back to the cubicle and suspenders you belong in." Suddenly she was in menswear. Even in the heat, her nape felt cold without her wig. The other her walked closer, scorn etched deep into its pink face. "All you're good for is cleaning up messes. Although, even with that, all you do is make things worse for everyone."</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Its eyes slid into a milky white and Dee stumbled backwards as her unease sharpened again into panic. </em>
  <em>
    <b>Fuck</b>
  </em>
  <em> no.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>In a nasally voice that cut clean through her, it sing-songed, "And daddy's little girl, he broke."</em>
</p>
<p>~~:::~~</p>
<p>The nightmare that woke her up in the middle of the night was just a whisper of discomfort when she went back to sleep. It was completely gone by the time she was getting ready for the day, for her interview!</p>
<p>She was going to kick its ass. She'd been prepping almost non-stop, she had the experience and the skill and the ambition. And if this interview didn't pan out, she'd use all those traits to get one that did.</p>
<p>Nothing but positive thoughts!</p>
<p>Up until she was walking into the skyscraper, that was. Then all she could see was people seeing her. No one was actually staring, she knew that. She also knew where the exits were and exactly where her mace was in her laptop bag. It was her first time in girl mode in a professional setting, where there were dress codes and gender roles galore. Soft, light, tight. Confidence is key. Rinse and repeat.</p>
<p>Dee made it all the way up to the 22nd floor, past some cubicles, and down a hallway of offices to her destination without being intercepted. At the very least she didn't stand out so much to be approached as an intruder.</p>
<p>Just as the email had said, there was a small hub of desks at the far side of the building arranged like three sides of a square with the help of different height cubicle walls. She checked the nameplate of the person front and center. "Onyinye Seguerro" sounded about right from what she remembered of the email. The pale Black woman behind the desk was smiling up at Dee past her reading glasses.</p>
<p>"How can I help you, dear?" she asked in a gentle, grandmotherly voice that matched the wrinkles and bright white hair peeking out from her vibrant headwrap.</p>
<p>Dee smiled back, wide and genuine. She hardly ever got called 'dear' in boy mode.</p>
<p>"Hi, I'm here for an interview with Mr. Adler at 10."</p>
<p>The person on the left and slightly behind Seguerro swiveled to look up at her. "Smith?"</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"Kassady. I'm the one that contacted you before. What’s your first name so I can let the interview committee know you're here."</p>
<p>"It's Dee. D e e."</p>
<p>Kassady nodded and turned back to the computer, apparently done with the conversation. Seguerro was smiling even wider when Dee looked back at her.</p>
<p>"Have a seat, Dee. They should be finishing up with discussing the last candidate soon. I'm sure they'll be right with you."</p>
<p>The little waiting area was nice: a couple vinyl couches, a small table with magazines and pamphlets about the company, a couple potted plants that looked real. Like a petite, slightly jazzed up doctor's office; all it was missing was a small aquarium. A few minutes into the wait, a man with golden-tan skin and an honest-to-god pompadour came from the hallway with a styrofoam cup and did a double take of her on his way to the empty desk on the other side of Seguerro. Dee had the bizarre thought that he'd look right at home in a quirky barbershop where everyone had dyed hair and tattoos even though he had neither. His embroidered short sleeve button up, loose dickies, and chunky boots gave Dee hope that the dress code was low-key enough that flats would go unnoticed.</p>
<p>The man and Kassady whispered to each other with a couple quick glances at her and she had just enough time to get anxious butterflies before a large middle-aged white man in a suit burst through the double doors across from the desk hub and grinned at her. He was bald enough that he looked not unlike a tan egg with a face made from a sticker kit. Something was wrong with the smile, at least, and her shoulders tensed a little more.</p>
<p>No. Wrong kind of tight. Soft, light, elbows and knees tucked close.</p>
<p>"Dee Smith?" His voice was nice, at least, as well as his handshake. "Nice to meet you. I'm Jim Adler, one of the people who will be interviewing you today. Come on in."</p>
<p>Pompadour guy shouted "good luck" at her, startling both her and Adler. Adler glared at him, but the man just grinned at Dee, who nodded in awkward thanks. Adler shared an eye roll with her, and like that they already had something connecting them. She took a steadying moment. Confidence. She had the skills and experience, she was good with people, she'd practiced her ass off. Only positive thoughts.</p>
<p>She followed Adler into the conference room.</p>
<p>~~:::~~</p>
<p>She finished the hiring paperwork before she left the building and finally let the excitement out in a fist pump and twirl in the parking garage. She was going girl mode full-time. God, she had <em>so much more</em> shopping to do.</p>
<p>Worth it.</p>
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